


dear_john.txt

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Epistolary, F/M, M/M, Mary POV, kinda angst?, this is warstan but very johnlock-oriented so maybe ot3? not sure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-12 18:58:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 12,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7945561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <br/>
  <i>Dear John,</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>If you are reading this, something went wrong. I can't predict what, or how. Maybe something happened to me. Maybe I told you, maybe someone else did. It doesn't matter, at this point. I don't even know if this will ever matter, frankly. I may be overreacting. It's quite possible, actually. In any case, I promise you this: I never intended to hurt you. If I did, I'm sorry. If I didn't, then things went accordingly, and I don't know why you're reading this. </i></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>(16 letters from Mary to John, starting from their third date until Leinster Gardens.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> not beta'd, not really brit-picked either.
> 
> this is very mary-friendly, but also very johnlock-friendly. in short, I love everyone and everything hurts.

Dear John,

If you are reading this, something went wrong. I can't predict what, or how. Maybe something happened to me. Maybe I told you, maybe someone else did. It doesn't matter, at this point. I don't even know if this will ever matter, frankly. I may be overreacting. It's quite possible, actually. In any case, I promise you this: I never intended to hurt you. If I did, I'm sorry. If I didn't, then things went accordingly, and I don't know why you're reading this.

I'm confusing you. I'm confused myself, so there's that. We just had our third date. I freaked out a little bit, when I realised we were going to kiss. I sound like a 12 year-old, don't I? Well. You didn't notice, because you were freaking out a bit yourself. Don't worry, you didn't let it show. Not in an obvious way, anyway. I'm just really good at reading people, especially you. Or I hope I am, otherwise I'm reading this entire situation entirely wrong.

I've been in London for 6 years. Officially, 3. Since then, I've had my fair share of dates. People are awfully lonely here, if you take a look around. It's not hard to land yourself in an opportunity like that. But it's always been just that - dates. None of the people I've gone out with have had any lasting impact on me. We date, we sometimes share a bed for a while, and that's it. I send them home, or they send me home, and it's never more than that. I couldn't connect at first. And really, I tried not to blame myself for that. This was the whole point. Not connecting. Not having any strings attached, not having any weak links. If I had to, I could flee in no time, and no one would truly miss me. It was all for the best.

But 6 years have passed, and I met you. John. Do you have any idea how thrilled I was at first? And scared, obviously. We met four months ago, and you never really came out of your shell. Not around me or any of the people at the surgery. It was so hard getting you to come along with us to the local. Even when you did, you were always so distant. I wanted to get to know you better, but you kept me at arm's length. It didn't bother me all that much, at first - I know when I'm not welcome. But you intrigued me. You seemed so sad. So empty. I wanted to know if I could help. Hell, maybe I could! So I tried. I asked you out. And you said yes.

Of course, you wouldn't have if you hadn't been so chatty that night. Or as chatty as you can be, anyway. The lady who greeted you at the bar seemed way too plastered to be acting reasonably, but you were polite. A bit dry, yeah, but polite. You two knew each other. You hated her. I never asked for her name, and you never offered. All I could gather was that she was from before. From back when your life revolved around him.

I knew about him. Every nurse in that surgery knew about the famous detective and his doctor friend. I looked him up when I started working there. I found your blog, but I didn't read it - it didn't feel right. You weren't writing on it anymore, anyway. But I did read the news on him. I knew who he was. And maybe I could see why you were so closed off. It was so recent. It still is. This made me reconsider several times. Maybe you just needed time to grieve? But the longer I was there, the more certain I was that you _weren't_ grieving. You were just... Living. And not living, at the same time.

It's sad, John. You are always so kind to people. You try so hard not to get on anyone's nerve. You do your hours, you have lunch by yourself, and you cover for your colleagues without asking for anything in return. But if one were to look at you, really look - take 2 minutes of their day and watch you - they would see how terribly broken you are. It pains me. I want to reach you, talk to you.

Maybe we could be friends.

I say this in the most sincere way possible. I don't think we're not suited for a relationship, it's not that. I still want to see where this goes. But what I do know for sure is that I understand. I had people I loved killed in front of me. Quite different scenarios, I suppose, but I know how it hurts. I know what it feels to be alone, completely alone. I know how sad it is to think you weren't enough. I know all that. I hate feeling that but I hate it even more to see  _you_  feeling like that. I don't know. I just care. No idea why.

So here we are. We had our third date, and we were kissing, and it was everything I could have expected. You're a very nice kisser, by the way. We had a good time together, and we parted ways, not because we didn't want to take each other to bed - God, if you could just see the way you were looking at me! - but because we're not ready. You're not ready and I just don't want this to end so quickly. I want this to last as long as possible. Rushing things up won't help.

But back to the reason I wanted to write this... I panicked. I almost turned my head away, made a lame excuse and ran. I didn't, but it was so close. Because John... I'm getting attached. I shouldn't, but I am. And how wrong is this? For me, for you, for both of us. We shouldn't be doing this. Actually, I shouldn't - you have no idea what you're doing. You're trying to stay afloat and I'm trying to pull you out of the water but chances are, I'm going to fall right into it and drown us both. You don't know that. You don't know anything. I know what I'm doing, and I know I shouldn't be doing it. You're too fragile, no matter how much you want to hide that fact, and I'm... Well. I am me.

I decided to write this as an ongoing letter. If something happens, and I'm gone, maybe you can read this and see that I meant it. Every single part of it. I do care about you, and I never meant to hurt you. Maybe one day I'll stop. Hopefully, you'll never need to read this and this is just going to be me talking to myself. Like a diary. Like I really am 12, recording how amazed I am by the nice boy in my class.

I'm not 12. I'm 36. I should know better. But I promise to be careful. I promise to protect you, to the best of my abilities. Protect you from myself, from those who want to hurt me, and, most of all, from yourself. Because you need protection, John. I may be the wrong person for it, but you do.

 

With love,

M.


	2. Chapter 2

Dear John,

My last letter was a little confusing, I suppose. I sound desperate.

The truth is, I'm a bit desperate. This is not how this was supposed to go. We had a nice evening today, even though we had a bit of an awkward moment there. You wanted to take me to bed but I stopped you. Again, not because I didn't want to, but because you weren't ready. You know that, too. You were trying so hard to be there but it just wasn't the right time. I felt sorry for you. For us, really. What a couple of sad people we are. You, too caught up in your grief to live. Me, to worried about my life to actually live. Our lives, at this point. Because I can't deny that you're part of mine, now.

You must have questions. If you're reading this, you're probably wondering why I never told you about my past. Or maybe I did and I handed you this in hopes you'd understand? I don't know. At times like these I wish I could talk to future me, get pointed in the right direction. Am I supposed to be explaining something here? Will we get that far that I'd feel the need to tell you of something I should be forgetting myself?

Truth is, I'm not who you think I am. Not exactly. Everything I say and do with you, right now, is true. I truly like your hair, and I really am a cat lady. I like chocolate and I hate black coffee. It's all true. The part that isn't true, and that I wish I'd never have to tell you, is the me before you. Someone who technically doesn't even exist anymore.

You asked me if it was okay for us not to keep going tonight. You sounded upset - I know you must have thought I was disappointed. But I wasn't, John. As I lay in your arms, both of us just the tiniest bit drunk, listening to your empty flat... I felt safe. It was all good. I love being next to you, and you're a really kind guy. I mean it. Not just in the way that you try to do well by people; you really are kind. Your heart is beautiful. There are some dark corners, granted. But we all have those. Believe me. We do.

I'm not being generous or a saint for putting sex off. You want it, I want it, and we’ll get there eventually. It's just that... Well, we need time to make this work. And gosh, do I want to make it work! But not like this, not rushed because some imaginary clock is ticking and saying "hey, this was your _fourth_ date! Get into bed!". You're grieving. Long and hard, slowly and painfully, and I understand. Even if you don't.

Again, I'm not making much sense. I guess I should write these in the morning, and not right after I get home from meeting you. I'm always so much more lost in thought in these moments. I'm sorry. I'll try to be less introspective. Get more to the point. I promise.

 

Yours,

M.


	3. Chapter 3

Dear John,

You mentioned your parents today. It was really brief, just a comment thrown in the moment, but I saw you hesitate for a bit. You think I'm an orphan, like I told you. You wondered if you had somehow hurt my feelings, which is nonsense. I guess you haven't been around lots of orphans lately. And I guess I'm not really an orphan, so it shouldn't matter. You swiftly changed the subject, got up and offered me some tea, then turned on the telly. I wonder if you remember this? How long will it have been when you read this?

Anyway, you were careful not to hurt me, thinking that talking about your parents would hurt me. I might need to let it clear at some point that it's all right. I want you to talk about your family, and your childhood. I'm curious, but that's beside the point. I feel like there's so much more to it than you're letting on. What was your childhood like? Why do I get the feeling you didn't get along with your dad? I'm pretty sure you joining the army had something to do with your family. How, though?

My childhood wasn't anything like yours, or how you pictured it to be. Mum drank, too. Not much, but enough for us to know very soon things weren't quite as beautiful as they were in the cartoons. Oh yes, "we". I had a younger brother and an older sister. I lost count of how many times we had to help Mum get changed, or under the shower. She cried a lot. We never talked about it. Andrea - my sister - always silenced us, said it was none of our business. She had it harder than us, I guess. Being the oldest, trying to look after all of us. She wasn't happy. She did it more to appease her consciousness, or that's what I thought when I was growing up. It's not that she loved us to the end of the world and back, it's just that she couldn't live with herself if she didn't look after us.

I'm probably painting a lot sadder picture than I remember it being, though. We always do that, don't we? Remember the bad bits, and slowly forget the good ones. I had a roof over my head, and food on the table. Father was barely there. I don't remember much about him. He was sort of a backstage presence, in and out. It took me a while to understand that he didn't care. It was really that simple. There was no better explanation, he just didn't care.

But I'm getting off topic here. My point is, I had a childhood. I had a family, a slightly dysfunctional one, but it worked. I survived.

God. I shouldn't have typed that in.

Are you mad at me? For not telling you all this? For telling you I was an orphan, growing up in an orphanage until I was old enough to fend for myself? Does that bother you?

If it does, I can't see how you would forgive me for everything else. Am I looking for your forgiveness? I guess I am. That's the whole point of these letters, isn't it?

I hope you can forgive me for not sharing that part of my life with you. For not being honest about my roots, about where I came from. I hope you won't be tiptoeing around the fact that I'm "an orphan" for too long. Or maybe it's for the best. The fewer questions you ask, the safer I am. We are. Right?

That'll be all, I think. You're still on the fence about asking me to go with you to Harriet's birthday next week. I hope you do. I'd love to meet her.

 

Yours truly,

M.


	4. Chapter 4

Dear John,

You cancelled on Harriet. You didn't give me a reason, and I don't know if you gave her one. Things seemed to be okay, but now I'm not so sure. I should be used to your inconstancy by now, but sometimes it just catches me off guard. I never know when it's a red flag or when it's just... You. Being you. This is tricky. I want to do right, I want to help, but how close should I get? I don't want to push you. That's the last thing you need right now.

Between us, though, things are great. We're "officially dating", as you stated last night. I don't remember us laughing so hard before. Gosh, I can't remember the last time I was that happy and carefree! And not pissed, mind you. That's something that just doesn't happen to me. With you, I'm not so sure either. I only ever knew your grieving self. Were you this carefree before? Is this how you were before everything? You had a rough childhood. You went to war. Maybe you were never really free.

Or were you? With him. Maybe that's why it hurt so much? Was he good to you? Did you finally feel happy when you were with him? I guess that's possible. More than possible. Likely. He freed you.

How could he leave you?

I suppose I will never really understand. You're talking about him, now. I asked you to. Your face when I did was so guarded; so suspicious! I guess that for a moment there, you didn't trust me. You were analysing me, trying to read between the lines. But John, I meant it. I want to know about him. Not as much for my sake but for yours. You're grieving, you're hurting, and you're not letting it out. It's eating you inside, do you realise that? Do you even cry? You haven't, not in front of me, ever since I met you. And you should be crying. Love, you should be letting it out. It's okay.

That's why I asked you to talk to me about him. Tell me what he was like. It doesn't matter if all you ever say to me is "he was a prick". I laughed at that, and you did too, and when I said that I'd have like him, you said "no one did". But you did, love. I said that once and I'll say it again: you did. And that's all right. Remember that. You did nothing wrong. I love that you're starting to open up to me. It's a slow process, but we'll get there. Talk about him. Remember him. Heal. It's time.

So far, you haven't told me much. An anecdote or another, but I'm patient. Take your time. I understand grief, and I know it's not the same to everyone, but I know you'll learn how to handle it. That's what's common to all of us. We discover our own coping mechanisms. If yours is talking about it, let's go with that. If not, well, we'll find out what it is. I'm here for you. We'll get through this together.

 

Love,

M.


	5. Chapter 5

Dear John,

I promised myself I would be honest with you, to the best of my abilities. I know this sounds hypocritical of me - I'm keeping so many secrets from you. But those are secrets from the past. That's the version of me you'll never need to know, hopefully. The real me is the me right now, the one who loves to sit on the floor of your living room at 3a.m and talk for hours. This me is honest. Tries to be, anyway.

But I don't know how that will work out if you're not willing to hear me. I understand now that I probably crossed some line - god only knows which. Was it too much, telling you that? Were you not ready to hear it?

Because it's true, love. You loved him. You have this look on your face when you talk about him. It's uncanny. It's like there's a whole new John hiding just beneath the surface, ready to pop out again. But as soon as you're back in the present, as soon as you remember what happened, you shut off again. That's the truth. I don't know what took you by surprise. You know that.

I'm probably doing it all wrong. I'm in no position to judge what you should or should not hear, I'm not your therapist, I have no right. You're right about that. But how is this any different from everything we've talked so far? You've told me so many stories about him up until now. You've shared so much from your adventures together. Even though you never really share anything else but the public, comic, fun side of it. You never tell me stories that aren't about a chase through London, an experiment exploding in the kitchen, your landlady's secret stash of pot. There's no intimacy in what you tell me, and _that's fine_. I'm not asking you to share more than you're comfortable with. Hell, I'm not sure I'd be comfortable to hear too much if there was more to it than I know. I'm your girlfriend, and hearing about well missed exes isn't exactly my favorite thing in the world.

But he wasn't really your ex, was he? You two never went there. Who knows about him - going by the things you tell me, one would think the bloke didn't even have a heart. But you, John. You loved him. That's not a secret, not a curse, not anything, really. And talking about him, the good memories, gives you this glow... I don't know. Should I be jealous? I suppose I should. But not when you look so radiant like this. Not when you're able to forget the pain for a minute and just breathe. It's beautiful. You look alive, John. That was love. That is love. Why are you so against it?

Maybe it's regret. And now, yes, I see how I really should be jealous. Maybe the only reason I'm not is because I know he's gone. Please, don't get me wrong. I'd give anything for you to not go through all that. If it was for me, he'd still be here. And you'd be by his side, where you seemed to belong. But he's not here anymore, and I don't have any reason to be jealous. We're not competing - he's gone, and I'm here. I'm not trying to take the place he left empty. I'd never fit into it, anyway. I just want you to acknowledge there is such a space in your heart. Acknowledge and move on. He's not coming back, and you should probably accept that your heart won't stop bleeding until you decide to address this. You loved him. He's gone.

I might be a little bit angry too. At him, in this case. How broken were the two of you, that simply saying you loved him gets this kind of reaction? Was I too blunt? Is it too early? Or are you just mad at yourself and lashing out on me? What is going on, really?

I will talk to you. Try to understand where I was wrong, if I was, and apologise if I have to. But John, if you could see yourself, you'd understand. This isn't me being cruel. At least I hope it's not. If it is, then I'll learn from this. I'll learn to respect your boundaries. I just wish we could talk frankly about this, like we always do about everything else.

Will you hear me?

 

With love,

M.


	6. Chapter 6

Dear John,

Meeting Harry was an interesting experience. I don't mean that in a bad way - it just left me wondering. You two clearly share more of a history than you're letting on. She seems nice, if a little bit lost in life. You two are civil enough with each other, but there's an underside of pain that I just wish I could understand better. It's like you hate to hate each other. You two try to work things out, but it just doesn't work. She seemed so eager to connect with you. What made you two drift apart so much?

I'm not asking you any of this. I know you don't want to talk about it. We've been dating for nearly four months and you have shared enough about your family for me to know you don't want to talk about it any more than you already do. But I keep wondering just how bad your relationship with her was. How did it shape who you are today?

You and me are a bit alike. We don't really have friends. Of course I did, back when I was young. I met my best friend when I was 14. She was more like my sister than my own sister. And Harry somehow reminded me of her. I don't know. Something about wanting to protect you despite how distant you two seemed to be? Or to be protected, I don't know. Sasha tried to protect me. It didn't work out. I never really had any close friends after her.

But I think we're quite different as well. You can't connect with people, or people can't connect with you, I don't know. Meanwhile, I just don't want to. I make my best not to get attached because how well will that work out in the end? Which is why this is insane. Me, you. This. It's something I never thought I would do. I still don't know what I'm doing.

God, I'm so scared.

This might not work out, and we'll drift apart. I'll live. But will you? I'm so afraid I'll scar you even deeper, John. I don't want that. I want to be with you, share my life with you. But what if I hurt you? What if someone else does, because of me? I'd never be able to forgive myself. My life hasn't been easy, but neither has yours. You don't know that, of course. You think that you're the one who's screwed up. You think I'm... Normal. That's funny. I never thought I was. But that's how I come off to you.

And that makes me think. Are you seeing the real me? Is this who I am? Or are you seeing the dummy, the façade? I don't know anymore. Am I "normal"? Are we? Can we pull this off?

I hope we can. I just realised I'm starting to love you.

How dangerous is that?

 

Yours, always,

M. 


	7. Chapter 7

Dear John,

I kept thinking about that thing about being normal. Maybe we look normal enough to the people closest to us. I don't know. What I do know is that "normal" is what you aspire to be. At least now, in the present. You want a normal life, whatever the hell that means. The funny thing is, I want it, too. That's insane, but it's true. We're both so far from normal, yet that's what we're looking for here. A normal life. What's that supposed to mean?

It occurred to me on our trip to the countryside last weekend. Ted and Stella were with us, and we had a lovely time, remember that? Slightly boring, with all that snow, the carefully selected wine and the insurance talk, but lovely all the same. They are good people. Boring, but good people. Gosh, we were a bit mean on our way back home, weren't we? We shouldn't mock people like that. Anyway. I'm getting off track.

Our second night there, when we were having dinner with all those tourists about us... Well, John, you looked bored. Doing your best to look interested, but I could tell you were about to fall asleep as Ted went on and on about his lawnmower. You engaged in conversation (you're so much more social these days, it's bloody beautiful), you asked him questions, you asked Stella about her business, but you were just... Bored. I would be too, certainly, hadn't it been for you. You're such an interesting person to watch. I think I'm getting better at reading you, with all this practice.

So anyway, Ted was talking, you were bored, and then I realised - you weren't about to give up, excuse yourself, try to signal me to get us out of there. No, you were doing an effort. You were making an effort to be more like Ted, less like John. And then it dawned on me that the whole weekend had maybe been an effort to learn. Or gauge my reaction, I'm not sure. In any case, that's what you're aiming for: to be like Ted. Boring, unsurprising Ted.

Normal.

At first, I wanted to laugh. I did laugh, if you remember correctly, when we got to our room. You laughed with me but as we lay in bed hours later, I understood something. We could aim for normal, and create our own normal. Wasn't that what I had been doing so far? Isn't that what I'm doing right now? I'm hiding behind a name that's not mine, living a life that's so different from the life I had for 27 years, looking for... What? Normality? Yes. Something along those lines. I was looking for normal before you were, and we somehow found each other.

Again, we're so far from normal. But if we want that for ourselves, well, who's stopping us? If it helps you heal and see a future for yourself, why not? Count me in. Let's have boring jobs and live in a boring neighbourhood where the most scandalous thing that ever happens is someone forgetting to water their garden. Let's get ourselves a dog and talk about that one awful politician we read about in the papers. Let's be boring. If that makes us happy, well, sod everyone else. We're boring and proud.

I hope I'm getting this right. I hope I'm not getting my hopes up and leading you on for nothing. I hope we can really pull this off. I feel like I said this too many times already, but that's all I'm asking for.

And if we're lucky, you won't even have to worry about me being repetitive in these letters, anyway.

 

Love always,

M.


	8. Chapter 8

Dear John,

I broke down. I wish I could talk to you about this, face to face, be completely honest. But I can't. How would I explain this to you? I don't even know how to explain it to myself.

I remember the last time I cried. Really cried, not from pain but from being just sad, or heartbroken. It was when Andrea died. It was the moment that changed me, and my entire life. I'm not about to bore you with this - or upset you, which would be even worse. The point is that it's been years. I taught myself not to let it show. I swallow my tears because crying never helped. That last time was proof enough.

But I cried again today and it hurt. Because it's such a silly reason to cry - a bloody date! - and it still felt so real, and so painful. We're nearing our first anniversary together, and I just exploded. Had a meltdown. I don't know. I'm over it now, and I'm completely sure it won't happen again. But it was still hard going through it alone. Not being able to call you, text you, just hear your voice. I could - I had my phone, you were probably at home. I just didn't. You wouldn't understand, and it may have scared you to death. I don't think you even realise I never cried in all these months we've known each other. Would it have scared you? Would you be alarmed? Would it make you question my motives? Probably.

I don't know what caused it. Not really. I was buying groceries, and I guess I just started over thinking. We're doing fine. No one's found me, you're stronger, healthier, and we're happy together. Can you believe it? That did it. I broke down crying. Of course I had the sense of mind to leave the store before I did but still. It was ridiculous. Before I knew it, I was having a full-blown meltdown in my car. Hopefully no one saw me. Last thing I need is to end up on the internet.

It took me a while, but I got myself in control again. I realise, now, that I haven't been following my own advice: I have been telling you, for months, that you need to let your grief show. You need to let it pour out of you. But I haven't been doing it myself. I guess I never did. When you're trained to keep your emotions in check, you don't make a habit out of letting things out once in a while. How long have I been bottling things up? And why is it coming out now?

My guess? I still can't believe it. I can't believe that we're here, together, safe. And happy. That's the key word. It's not perfect - you're still so broken on the inside, and I'm still so guarded, waiting for the worst... But it's our version of happiness. That's what we're allowed to have, for now. And it's just too good to be true. And scary. I'm still so scared things are going to go wrong. Will I ever grow out of this fear? Maybe not. That's the price I have to pay, probably. For everything I've done. For everything I needed to do in order to get where I am today.

I'm sorry I kept this from you. I know you keep things from me, too, and it's all right. I'm just sad that I'm constantly doing this - it's like I'm still alone. Which I'm not. I have you. And if I want you to stay with me, I need to keep things from you. That's sad, complicated, ridiculous. Life sucks.

But to be honest, it sucks a lot less with you by my side.

 

Love,

M.


	9. Chapter 9

Dear John,

Have you ever thought about what makes us truly happy? Really, truly happy?

I'm not talking big time happy. I'm talking giggling and smiling happy. Tearing up from laughing too hard happy. Being unable to hold a smile happy.

It's usually the small things.

For example, earlier today. We were talking about moving. I was talking about moving, in fact, and you were listening, patiently. You had that look on your face that told me you were only half listening, head propped up on a hand, forehead creased. Maybe you wanted to pay attention but couldn't, I don't care. It's not like you would be much of a help in the first place anyway. (Sorry, I love you, but we both know you're not big on house chores). So here I was, talking my head off, going through a billion lists of boxes and spreadsheets and you simply got up and went into the kitchen.

I was mad for a second. Yup. You probably didn't even see it - you just walked right into the kitchen. You didn't even look back. You have a nice arse, John Watson, and that's what stopped me from saying anything at that moment. I just tried to go back to whatever it was I was doing... And then, a while later, you came back with tea. And water, and some biscuits. You set them on the table in front of me and told me I hadn't eaten in so long. I don't know why I'm telling you this, you were there, but maybe I'm afraid you won't remember it. And you should. Because at that moment, the smile I gave you, it was one of those smiles. You know? The ones you can't contain. They just make their way into your face and you feel so silly! Why am I smiling like a bloody idiot?

You sat back down, propped your face again and went back to staring at me. Like you hadn't been interrupted. Like you hadn't just walked out on me and came back bringing me food just because I had skipped lunch. For the record, I hadn't even realized. But you had. And that made me so ridiculously happy, I still can't quite believe it.

Here's the thing. I love you. I have loved you for a while now. But I hadn't believed, up until this point, that you loved me. I know - trust issues. You did take a while to say that back to me, you can't deny that. And I understood that, and I would understand if you didn't love me even now. How could I ask you such a thing, knowing how intrinsically hurt you felt just over a year ago? You have trouble loving yourself, how could I possibly expect you to love me?

That's not heroic of me. That's not a selfless act. I need to say this in case you do read this letter and think of me as some brainless fool who believes love is above all. That's just something I learned over the years. For a long time, I couldn't love myself. It took me time and effort to just come to terms with who I was, and am today. I was hurting, I was full of hatred and disgust and honestly, I couldn't love anyone like that. I just hurt people as well when I tried to. I needed time to heal, as I thought you did. And you did, actually. You're just a lot stronger than I thought you were.

But you were there, caring. Being truthfully concerned, not just robotically answering to social norm. You actually cared. And that made me so happy. Oh, John. I can't begin to explain how. Not even you asking me to move in with you made me that happy.

Tea and biscuits. The way to my heart, apparently.

Jokes aside, it does mean a lot. Because I never thought I would get here. From my childhood to my thirties, I never thought I would actually be in this place. Loving someone, and being loved back. Safe. Together. It doesn't even feel real, sometimes. Is this real? Am I imagining things? I suppose not.

Of course, I don't think you're quite as madly in love with me as I would like you to be. This isn't a romantic comedy, this is real life. Just like I'm not entirely sure - even now - that this is it, that I will never have to run away again... I'm not entirely sure you're all mine. Perhaps there will always be a part of you that's just out of reach for me. I'm okay with that. As long as you're here, and as long as we allow each other to be as close as comfortably possible, that's fine. We're both a little bit wrong, a little bit broken, but we work together. You make me happy. So incredibly, astonishingly happy. Do I make you this happy? Will I ever?

And I'm smiling again. Like an idiot. Gosh, this is stupid. How old am I again?

 

Love always,

M.


	10. Chapter 10

Dear John,

I couldn't sleep tonight. You asked me what was wrong and I said I had a headache. You believed me. Why wouldn't you? I've had headaches before. They've kept me awake, too.

Sometimes I wish you wouldn't believe me so easily, though.

The thing that kept me awake tonight was just thoughts. We ran into someone yesterday, a friend of yours from university. You introduced me, the three of us talked for maybe two minutes, and then he was gone. Perfectly simple. Right?

Except that no, it wasn't. It made me think about all my emergency plans. I have five different plans in case we need to run. Those are the ones that include both of us - I have plans in case we need to go separate ways, or in case you don't come with me. (I hope I never need to use any of these, but I particularly hate the last kind). In a scenario where someone finds me, or comes after me, we have ways to escape and never look back. We can leave no trace of us behind, whatsoever. And it sounds perfect to me. Until I think about what you would be leaving behind.

I'm not even sure you would come with me in a situation like this. I don't know how you would react, and I can't force you to do anything - just like you wouldn't force me to stay if I said I needed to go. But I try not to think about leaving you behind. When I wonder about this kind of thing, I picture you with me.

What kept me up last night was a fairly obvious conclusion that I was probably forcing myself to ignore. You have a life here. London is your home. You don't have a big family, granted, but Harry is here. Your friends are here. You went to university here; you probably have friends from high school somewhere. Your whole life is in London. Would you really leave it all behind if I asked you to?

You probably wouldn't. Which is why I had trouble closing my eyes and going to sleep. How could I even ask you to do such a thing? If your life was at risk, of course. But if someone's after me and you don't need to be brought into this... Would I?

I don't really miss my life from before. I learned how to be alone a long time ago, and since then, I've never been squeamish about leaving people behind. I think I've said this before, in a past letter: I've never been one to create roots. Since I was a teenager, I haven't had a relationship that lasted longer than a few months. I've lived everywhere. I've made friends, I've lost friends. This is how things work for me. Do I like it here? Of course. The people at the surgery are lovely; our neighbours are, for the most part, nice. But I wouldn't bat a lash if I had to leave them. After you've been on the run all your life, you learn not to get too attached to people. Especially when they can be used against you.

But you, John, You may not be popular, your friends may not hang around long enough for you to feel loved, your sister may be a painful reminder of all your family problems... But this is your life. Would you leave it all behind? I can't know for sure, even if everything says you wouldn't.

There are two points to this, of course. It all came to me last night while I lied there, awake. First, you went to war. So one time in your life you left home and went somewhere else, not even knowing if you would come back. But that didn't do you any good. You came back, thankfully, but you came back hurt, haunted. It changed you. No matter how much you love action, war wasn't good for you. Something inside the young you was broken, and you wanted to glue it back, but instead it came out wrong. War wasn't the fix you were hoping it would be. I can't possibly believe that going away again would help, not now. Not at this point in life, when you're trying so hard to just survive.

And then, there's the grave.

I know you don't visit it that often. I know for sure that before I suggested it, you had never visited him. Not after the funeral, anyway. I'm not about to ponder the reasons. It may have been because a different number of things. Maybe it just never occurred to you (unlikely as it is). But now you do visit it. You did last month, with me, and I know you did it again, a week later, without me. You asked me to go with you again this month. And I will. Maybe you'll make a habit out of this. I don't know. What I do know is that you shouldn't leave now. Not while you're making so much progress, dealing with your grief. Do you see?

It's a good thing that you're visiting him. I know this offers little to no closure. But ignoring it, having dreams about it (I know you do, love. I know) is not healthy either. You're strong enough to stand facing his grave, which is good. I don't know what you think when we're there. You don't talk, and you don't say anything after we leave. But I don't need to know - you deserve the privacy. I was surprised you even included me at all. I thought you would want to go alone. Which you did, later, but at first, you wanted me there, and you want me to be there again next time. This is progress. You, visiting his grave, letting me into this moment. This is you opening up. Even if you don't really open up - this is your way of doing it.

I'm glad you're doing it, and so thankful. But also miserable, because now I know this means you can't leave. And that if you do, you'll need to be back someday, even if it's just to say goodbye one last time. I can only hope we won't have to leave until you're healed, and your mind is in place again. Leaving before that... I don't know how you would react to it. But it doesn't feel right.

It's a scary thing to think about, in any case. Leaving. It would be so easy for me, and so hard on you. Whether you come with me or not, it would affect you. How hard, I wonder? Is it better if I leave you behind? Is it kinder of me? Or should I ask you to come and leave everything and everyone behind? Your entire life?

I did that twice. I left everything behind once when I was 18 and again when I was 27. It's easy for me now. But it won't be easy for you and it's foolish of me to expect anything else.

As always, I can only hope I won't have to think about it. Ever.

 

Yours,

M.


	11. Chapter 11

Dear John,

It has been a while since my last letter. I suppose I was just too caught up in life, and too happy to really think about writing these. If things had gone differently, this would be the letter in which I would gush about how much I love you, how happy I am, and how obvious you were trying to hide the fact that you were planning to propose.

But then, Sherlock came back. And things went downhill, in a way.

Not that his return is a bad thing in itself. On the contrary: I'm so, so relieved. This is it, love. This is the miracle you've been asking for. If there was any way for you to be all right again, this would be it. You were making progress, and you were starting to heal, but that was nothing compared to what's happening now. He's back, and the wound isn't bleeding anymore. You'll be fine. Do you realise that? _You'll be fine_. This is everything we could've hoped for, in terms of your recovery.

I promised I would talk you round, and I will. Not now - you're still pretty much in shock, and I can understand that. That night at the restaurant... It was insane. I worried for you, I was mad for you. It felt like such a low way to hurt you, showing up like that, making jokes. I couldn't very much butt in - that wasn't my place, it was between the two of you - but I wanted to. I wanted to yell at him, because he seemed so clueless! As if you hadn't been hurting and bleeding all this time, so very close to suicidal. Does he even realise that? I don't think he did, at first. Maybe he does now.

That's another thing. You were so wrong about him. He's not a monster, he's not heartless... So far from that, actually. You two are just so wrong and dysfunctional, it's almost funny. But only almost. There's too much pain involved for it to actually be funny. Suddenly, all your stories make a lot more sense. I can fill the gaps now, understand things a little better. I don't know how you'll fix this mess, but you will. You two always work things out. There's no reason for it not to happen again this time.

My first reaction was just that: relief. You would be fine; more than fine, actually. Things would be in place, and for a second there, I forgot all about myself. On purpose. I just pushed my own problems to the back of my mind. If Sherlock saw anything weird, or if he knows anything about me at all, he didn't say it. And I didn't worry. I would worry about that later.

But I shouldn't have done that. The incident with the bonfire happened and I was certain for a couple of days that this was it. Someone had found me, and they were trying to get to me through you. I went back to locking doors, windows, looking over my shoulder. My gun is always loaded now, stashed under our bed at night. Only when I noticed you were attributing it to Sherlock's return, did I realise I had completely ignored the new factor.

Sherlock.

So in a week, I went from being elated from the prospect of marrying you, to completely terrified and wondering who, in hell's name, tried to kill you. Was it because of me or because of Sherlock? I was inclined to believe it was Sherlock; after all, he had just come back when you were nearly burned alive. But what guarantees do I have? What if this is my past, catching up to me? If not, well, I must say I wasn't expecting your past to catch up to you like this. Sporting a fake moustache, of all things.

But I'm getting off topic. The point is, something's happening. And I don't like not knowing where the bullets are coming from.

Overanalysing things like this, I started to wonder how long it will take for Sherlock to see me. Really, really see me. Not John's fiancée, not the nurse, but the face behind the mask. Did he see it already? Is he protecting you by keeping my secret? Somehow, I don't see him doing this. He would've done something by now if he knew.

After all, you come first. That's true for both of us.

And that gets us to the here and now. I feel like I'm worrying over so many things at once, I might lose my focus at some point. Who put you in the bonfire? Why? Should we leave? Is this about me or about Sherlock? Does Sherlock know about me? If he does, why didn't he just say so already?

I wish I could confide in you, John. More than ever. I wish I could come clear to you, fake moustache or not, and just tell you the truth. Explain everything. Except that I know things wouldn't go as well as they did with him. I just do. It breaks my heart, but it's true. I might not know just how far you're willing to bend your morals to excuse Sherlock's actions, but I do know you'd never bend it as far as to ignore everything I've done. You love me, but you're not blind. And I'm not that naive.

Things would be so much easier if we could talk. Maybe you could help me think, come to a conclusion. Sherlock likes your company for a reason, you know. You're brilliant, and you could help me now. But you can't, and I need to deal with this by myself.

Again, I'm sorry. For keeping secrets. For not asking for your help when we should be facing this together, for both of our sakes.

Please, be safe. Please, I beg you. I'll fix this. But I need you to be alive for that.

 

Yours,

M.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's probably obvious by now, but in any case... this is mostly canon compliant but I've taken some liberties explaining things as well.

Dear John,

The time for you to read these letters may be closer than ever. I hope you won't have to read it until after our wedding, though.

That's the saddest thing I've ever written. Gosh, I sound pathetic.

I need to explain this. You need to understand, because I'm not sure if any part of my plan is actually going to work. I hope it will. But just to be safe, I'm writing this and explaining everything. I feel like at this point I just need to justify any action I might take from now on.

Someone left me a package at the surgery today. I thought nothing of it, since we sent out the wedding invitations not long ago. I just thought it was some distant parent of yours rushing into things, maybe. I realise now, as I type this, how awfully distracted I am. This is irresponsible, given the circumstances. But well, someone sent me this small package with no return address today. I kept it in my locker (again, how careless can I be?) until I got home and finally opened it.

It's a flash drive. I'm looking at it as I type this. You may come across it sometime; maybe the reason you're reading these letters is because I handed you this. I don't know. There's nothing distinctive about it, except for the letters written on it. A.G.R.A. My initials. The real ones.

I was shocked speechless. You weren't home - you still haven't come back, out with Sherlock somewhere - and I was so glad for that because I wouldn't be able to hide it from you. I just stared at it, feeling the world crumble around me. This was it. This was the final proof I needed to know that I'm not safe anymore. And, by proxy, neither are you.

I'm not going to bore you with technical details about how I managed to plug it safely, afraid there might be some sort of malware in it. There wasn't, but there was something else. All the files on me, including the ones I personally destroyed, are there. Everything I did on record is there. The people I angered, the people I ran away from. Everything about who I once was, in short. My entire life and everything I tried to leave behind when I moved here.

Everything I always hoped you would never need to learn about.

This was a couple of hours ago. I must confess that few times in life I've felt this panicked. Someone, I don't know who, has found me. And is clearly threatening me, and everything we've built so far could be burnt to ashes if I'm not careful enough. More importantly, I don't know what their intentions are. If they wanted me dead, I would be by now. But then again, they nearly killed you. Now the attack with the bonfire makes a lot more sense. It really was something related to me. Sherlock's return may have triggered it, brought us under the light, but in the end, it's all on me. And I don't know what their next move is going to be.

I did, however, found out who it is. Just before I started this letter, I did my research. I didn't have to dig deep enough or hack into anything I hadn't hacked before to have a name. Every source I had pointed in the same direction, spelled the same three letters: CAM. If something happens to me before I can do anything about this, John, please: get as far away from that man as you can. It doesn't even matter if I'm already gone. Chances are, the Holmes family is bound to cross paths with him, if they haven't already.

Now that I have a name, though, I have a plan. It's everything I wish I could avoid. It's a path I wish I didn't have to take. But this whole thing made me realise that no matter how far I run, and how well I hide, I'm still myself. I will always be me. I hope you can forgive me. If any part of this goes wrong, know that I had you in mind. Your safety, my safety, our lives. I lied, and I hid things from you, but I never intended for it to blow up in our faces like this. I hoped so much that this would never happen. And now that it did, well, I don't have a choice. It's either him or us.

He has everything on me. He didn't say what his intentions are, but I'm making a wild guess and calling it right now that he can have me killed in minutes. That's his message. "I know what you did, to whom, and I can make you pay." I don't know what his price is, but in any case, I'm ready. I just don't know if you are.

John, my love. You have shown me happiness I didn't know existed. You taught me to love, and care, and proved that I can be loved and cared for. Thank you. I promise you I'll do my best to protect us and the life we're just starting to plan together. If you don't understand my actions, at least try to understand my motives. This is all for us.

I'm not ending this as a goodbye letter. Just remember, I love you. We'll see through this.

 

All my love,

M.


	13. Chapter 13

Dear John,

I knocked someone out last night.

I don't know why I feel like I should tell you this. I had a few glasses of wine. I'm listening to a song that goes "living like you're dying isn't living at all". And I was thinking about Sherlock. So yeah.

All of this propelled me to open my laptop and start typing. The knocking out, well, to be fair, the dickhead had it coming. He put a knife against my ribs and tried to rob me, and to be quite honest with you? _I fucking looked around_. As if I were a helpless piece of shit that can't do shit. I got so mad at myself! I broke his nose, maybe a few teeth broke loose too, I'm not too sure. I still have his knife. Ha! Bet he didn't saw that coming.

Maybe I'm a little pissed. But the thing here is, I realised right there and then that I'm dealing with this whole thing the wrong way. I can handle this. I have done it before, what's so different now? You are, John, You are what's different now. This isn't just me taking out some scumbag and going away. This involves you, now. Gosh, you're my fiancé! We're getting married in a few months? So much for our normality. Where did that go, anyway?

Oh yeah, and then there's Sherlock. I've been worrying so much these past few days, trying to think of ways to ask for his help. He could help, couldn't he? I bet he could. His brother too, but mostly him because he's just so careless. So full of himself! In a nice way, but also in a bad way. I could never ask for his help, and you know why? He wouldn't let it go. He would _never_ let it go. Do you see where I'm going? If I asked you to leave with me, he would want to go too, or maybe prevent you from going, who knows. You wouldn't even go without him now, would you? No, probably not. And if I asked him to help me get rid of CAM? Well, he probably would come up with some plan of his own that would screw everything up. He wouldn't go with my plan. No, that would be too much for his ego. He would want to fix things. And ruin everything all at once. I love him, but Jesus, he's more stubborn than I am! Or is he? I don't even know anymore. We're so alike sometimes. So stupid. 

Not to mention that I would have to tell him about everything. Can you see that working out? Because I can't.

This is bullshit. Sherlock can't help. It's better for everyone if I keep him out of this. Including myself! Because fuck me if I can't handle things myself! Do I really need help? Answer is no. I don't. I could use yours, John, my John, but that's beside the point. Aside from you, no one can help.

That sad thing is that you and Sherlock are really alike on this. You wouldn't let it go either. You would let ME go, most probably.

Now I just sound pathetic. Jesus, I'll stop here.

 

Love, love, love,

M.

 

PS, "Every time I close my eyes I hear your favourite song / Telling me not to run, not to worry anymore / I can hold on tight to nothing better than the rest / So it's now or never more". This is it. This is our song, John.


	14. Chapter 14

Dear John,

I promised I wouldn't delete anything here, which is the only reason why that previous letter is still here. I really do sound pathetic. But I guess it's good that you get to see the unfiltered version of myself. You know I don't tend to blabber like that when I get drunk - if I did I would be one hell of a lousy agent. And nurse. I probably needed to say all those things to you. In this format, of course. This is the only way I can really tell you things. Maybe even pissed I realise that.

But the gist of it is all true. I can't get Sherlock to help; it wouldn't be wise, or safe. And I can deal with things, like I always have. I'm scared like I haven't been in a long time, but it will be all right. I hope.

This letter comes in what should be the happiest moment of my life. We're married! The ceremony was yesterday and well, attempted murders apart, it was beautiful. You were beautiful. Everything was just as it was supposed to be, and our friends were there, and this is the part where I'm supposed to say "I couldn't be happier!". Except that I could.

You didn't even notice CAM's message amid the telegrams. Sherlock didn't register it either - and he read the thing out loud! It was clever, of course, mentioning my parents. My shock was interpreted as grief, resentment, sadness. But oh, John, I was terrified. I was about to jump and go fetch my gun from where I had left it in our room. I couldn't carry it with me during the ceremony, even if I wanted to - which I didn't, I just didn't want to think about anything but us getting married - but God, at that point, I wish I had it on me. I could almost feel his presence there. I was quite certain we were safe, having gone through the guest and staff list myself, but I was wrong, wasn't I? That bloody photographer. Now that I think about it, it was pure luck that bastard CAM didn't decide to get me right there and then. He would. Just for the dramatic effect, I'm sure.

And the baby. Oh, John! I wanted so much to happy for the life inside of me. But all I can think about now is that if CAM gets me, I'm not going down alone. I'm taking someone else with me. And how unfair is that? What a cruel joke the universe is playing here with me. I have a target on my back and I get to carry a child? Why? Why now? Why weren't we more careful?

This isn't how I pictured my reaction to be if I ever found myself to be pregnant. I never really imagined myself getting pregnant, to begin with. For a long time I thought I would die on the job, alone, as I tried so hard to be. Then you turned my life around, and now... Now that I feel like having a family is the most beautiful thing that could happen to us... Now all I feel is fear. For me, for the child. For you, even. Losing me would take its toll on you, but losing a child on top of that? That would destroy you.

You're on the phone as I type this, trying to get as many appointments booked for me as you can before we leave to our honeymoon. And I'm watching you, and wondering how I managed to get us here. So far in the "normal" fantasy we had for ourselves but so entangled in the mess that is our lives. I know I promised we would be all right, but at this point I need to question myself. There's no way to know, is there? Are we going to be okay, John?

I really hope so. For us, and for this child who has no idea what a crazy world they are trying to get into.

I can't even ask them to stay inside my body while we deal with the mess out here. My body is the least safe place of all. I'm a time bomb.

I'm so sorry, love. To both of you.

 

Yours, always,

M.


	15. Chapter 15

Dear John,

I don't have much time to write this. I screwed up. I don't know how long it will be until you find out, but I'm terrified. Because I think you'll find out soon enough. And I don't know if you'll want to listen to me.

You're at the hospital right now. You left me frantic messages telling me that Sherlock got shot. Honey, I know. This is so wrong. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Nothing was supposed to be like this. Am I going to lose you because of this? Probably. God, I hate myself right now. How could I be this dumb?

I'll have to go there in a moment. I just needed to write this, and let you know that, John... I'm sorry. I never intended to do any of this. It wasn't part of the plan, and if I hadn't been so panicked, I'd have thought this through. But I didn't. I screwed up. So, so bad, I don't know if you'll ever forgive me for this.

I love you, and I'd never do anything to hurt you. On the contrary, everything I've done, ever since I met you, was try to avoid you getting hurt. At all costs. I messed up tonight. I should've seen how this was a bad idea. I didn't, not at the time. I hope you'll let me explain. Let me talk to you. Please, John. Please, let me explain.

I will save this file in the flash drive. That way, if you want, you can learn everything. About my past, and about our present. Please, read this. Please, try to understand.

I need to go now. I have no idea what's going to happen from now on. I can only hope I can fix this.

 

Yours,

M.


	16. Chapter 16

Dear John,

You have the flash drive, so I'm not sure if you have read my past letters. I don't know if I'd rather have you read it or not. That would mean you'd have seen everything, and I don't know if I want you to.

It's been a week since Leinster Gardens. We haven't talked. You didn't come back for your things at the flat. It's all here. Your laptop, your clothes, your bike. It's both a painful reminder and a string of hope: maybe this means you'll come back, eventually. Maybe this means you'll never come back, not even to get your things. I don't know what to think anymore.

We could arrange for you to get your things back, of course. It's not like I don't know where you are, and it's not like we're not going to see each other at the surgery. You haven't been coming in, but you haven't quit either. Which means we're going to see each other at work. I don't know if we'll talk, but that's another thing entirely.

I'll probably leave for a few days. Let you come home. You're not coming because I'm here. I'll give you the space. That's what you need right now, isn't it? Space.

I wonder if you have read it already. The things in the flash drive. My bet is that you haven't, otherwise you'd have said something by now. You wouldn't stand learning about everything and not saying a word, would you? Yelling, even. You would yell. Would you cry? Now I'm just being ridiculous. You're not that dramatic. Or are you?

I guess I owe you an explanation. For the unexplainable. 

Believe me when I say this: shooting Sherlock was the last thing I wish I'd have done. My plan worked perfectly. I was inside, after months of preparation, and I had CAM on his knees. It would have been a perfect job. Spotless. No one would know, and we'd be free forever. Do you see that? I was so close to ending all this. So close to going back to our lives, our routine, our normality. If only I had pulled the trigger and left before you two arrived, none of this would have happened.

But the universe decided to screw us over. What were the odds that you would decide to break into his office on the exact same night as me? How could I have predicted it? I keep replaying that day in my head, trying to find any clues, any hints that something like that could happen. Anything that could have tipped me off and kept me away from that building on that particular night. And I always come up with nothing. There were no hints. It was pure chance. How incredibly unfair is that? 

I had less than a few seconds to think. The moment Sherlock stepped into that room, my head started spinning. I went through my options so quickly, so desperate and _angry_ that something like that should happen, that I couldn't see any way out. I was cornered. And I made a bad choice. I figured that I didn't have any other options; coming clean to both of you was out of question. Looking back, I wish I had done that. Coming clean, I mean. It wouldn't go well. You'd hate me, just like you do now. But I wouldn't have risked your life, or Sherlock's. 

Because I risked both of your lives when I shot him, love. I know now that I did. At that moment, all I could think of was getting out of there. Hiding from you, as I have always done. So I shot him. Not to kill, not immediately, anyway. But I did, thinking that as long as he never had the chance to tell you about me, I would be okay. We would be okay. I expected him to buy me some time, and then die. Do I sound too cold? Is this too harsh? 

I don't expect you to understand, love. I see now that I did the most awful thing I could have done to you. I tried to kill him. The one person that you can't live without, the one person that keeps you centred. I tried to kill both of you. It was so stupid of me. I never thought I'd screw up this badly, not once in my life, and I have done my fair share of screw ups. But nothing like this. The one thing I didn't want was to hurt you, and John, if I had killed Sherlock, would you have come back from that? Would you be able to move on? 

I saw you during those two years when you were grieving. I was there. I know how bad it hurt, and how much pain you were in. To think that I almost put you through all that again... I can't begin to imagine what it would have been like. I know I helped you through the pain the first time, but how would you cope with having to deal with it a second time? And how would I forgive myself knowing that I had caused it? 

I don't hate Sherlock. I don't wish him dead - though, if I'm being honest, that's what I thought I wanted that night - and I don't want you to think that I do. He loves you, and I love you, and how could you be safer than with both of us by your side? We'd do anything for you. Stupid, terrible things, like I've done. Like he has done, too. We both put you through so much pain trying to protect you. I don't hate him. He is more of a brother, a friend to me than I ever thought possible. I see myself in him. If that's a good or a bad thing, I'll let you decide. 

That's why I think he didn't see me sooner. He sees himself in me, too, in a way. And he knows that I love you, with all my heart. He can tell, because that's how he feels, too. I guess that blinded him. He saw someone willing to love and care for you as much as he did, and he let me in. Love blinds us. Makes us do stupid things. That sounds shallow and cliché but look at me. Look at him, for God's sake. We're all stupid. And so, so damaged. 

I'm sorry, John. For all the pain I put you through. For all the mistakes I've made, for all the things I've kept from you. All this time I kept wishing and hoping that we'd never be here. I wished that we could live our boring, normal life forever, without as much as a misstep. I never imagined I would be the one to ruin everything. I'm sorry.

I'll never forget the look you gave me at Baker Street, when Sherlock went down and you just looked at me and screamed with your eyes. That look, John, is the most hurtful thing I've ever gone through. Loss, heartbreak, torture, nothing compares to that. You hated me in that moment. You hated what I had done to you, both of you. You hated that I was the reason Sherlock was on the ground, bleeding. You hated me with such passion that I realized, ironically, that you had never looked at me with so much passion before. You had never loved me as much as you hated me in that moment. 

I don't know if you'll ever be able to truly forgive me. I was never sure if you would forgive me if you ever learned about my past. Now, after everything that has happened, I'm inclined to believe you won't. Lying to you was bad enough. Nearly killing you was too much. 

In all this madness, I kept thinking about the baby. About how unfair we're being to them. And how unfair it is that they should be brought into this chaos. I need to ask myself, over and over again, if this is all somehow my fault. If I should've known that having a kid isn't something I'm supposed to do. No matter how much I love them and how much I love you... Am I really suited for this? What guarantees do I have that I won't screw up again? I tried so hard to make you happy and look where that got us. Did my own happiness blind me? Should I have been more careful? Will I be able to pull this off? 

I miss wondering if _we_ could pull this off. I miss when there was a _we_. 

But I guess there's a new _we_ now. Me and this baby. I just wish you could be part of this. 

Something is broken between us, John. I don't know if we'll be able to fix it. But I'll try, and I'll give you all the space you need. If you decide you don't want anything to do with me, or with this new life, it's okay. I can fend for myself and you don't need to worry about the baby. I'll make sure their life is everything our lives never were. Filled with love, compassion, happiness. I'm pretty sure they can teach me a thing or two about that, too.

I'm not sure if I will keep writing these letters. I don't know if there's a point, since I don't know if you'll ever want to see me again. But at the same time, maybe I need to do this. Talk to you, even if it's through letters I don't even know if you'll read. Let you know that I had your happiness and well-being in mind, at all times. It may be hard to believe that right now. But it's true. It will always be true. 

I love you, John. I hope you can remember that.

 

Yours always,

M.


End file.
